there is a certain type of geniuswho is proud to know so muchhe skipped a thousand showerscause he doesn't need to touchhe hides his bastard facesbehind thick panes of glassthey're all that seperates himfrom the apish lower classand the stench of love keeps sneaking up his nosethrough all the snot his sinuses can holdbelieving all the lies that he's been toldgrows old, so old

a friday night alone with friendshe's got but one or twothey're geniuses like him, you seenothing like all of youthey banter and they languishwith all ostentatious plea they're all so trendy and which they're underground machines

and he wont be there when jesus comes aroundhe'll write a book on what his studies foundand deep inside he'll learn to fear the sound of hope, of hope

he says why should i even tryi will let the oil soak in my face until the pimples shinelike tiny mountains set in placethis lonely valley, minebetween the hills of opulence they grow with strength and timescarlet clusters spring from skin to hide my missing spots

and he wont be there when jesus comes aroundhe'll write a book on what his studies foundAnd deep inside he'll want to hear the sound of hope, of hope

when the world stabs you in the backthe worst thing you could do is become indifferent tothere is no 'they'no idiot brigadeonly a thousand yous equally as bruised